All I Have
by Sing Me To Heaven
Summary: His voice fills my ears . . . It’s almost as if it has control of me. I can’t stop it, can’t stop myself. I can only listen and weep for him. Oh Erik . . . Luciana's PoV, based on Kay's Phantom


All I Have

His voice fills my ears. His music, coming from the cellar, haunts me and I'm powerless. All I can do is sit here, hugging my knees to me chest, and rock back and forth with the rhythm of his song. It's almost as if it has control of me. I can't stop it, can't stop myself. I can only listen and weep for him. _Oh Erik . . ._

These things I feel, they are so strong, unlike anything I have ever experienced before. I love him so much, and he won't even look at me, like he's scared of me. Why can't he see how I love him? Why can't he love me back?

I was so stunned when I first saw Erik. I had just waltzed into my father's house, joyfully home from my hellish school, and I saw him. Of course, Daddy explained who he was, and he stayed away from me, but Erik made me incurably curious. There was something about him, something that made my lips part and my eyelids flutter in ecstasy. He only had to move his graceful, sensual hands and I was under his spell. He was so intoxicating, his every word, his every action filled my mind and my heart.

I always felt that Erik understood me. It was probably some lovesick fantasy, but it felt so real . . . It still does as I sit here on the cold stone stair and listen to the melody he seems to be playing for me and me alone. Throughout me life I have always been told what an awful, wretched brat I am. The only person who seemed to care about me at all was my father. My mother and sisters certainly didn't want me. So I became the shining star in my father's sky. I would do silly, childish things that he found endearing to get his attention, and he would spoil me with his hugs and kisses. I would do anything for that sliver of a hope that he actually _loved_ me.

As I got older, I wasn't the adorable, innocent little child anymore, but a badly behaved little girl. My father began treating my with indifference, just like everyone else. I was scared that he didn't love me, that no one loved me and no one ever would. Some part of me deep inside my heart thought that they would all forget about me and leave me to rot in my own wretchedness, and fear took over my life. I began doing repulsive, vicious things to get attention, to get some emotion from someone. It started with hiding my sisters' needlework of the cook's favorite spoon, and got progressively worse. The older I grew, the angrier I became. Why didn't they love me? Why wasn't I good enough? My rage at my family for not accepting me and at myself for not being acceptable consumed me.

I kept it all inside until one day when I was just blossoming into womanhood, I burst. I was so angry, but I regret it so much now . . . I smashed my mother's favorite china figurine, a beautiful dancer with lovely blond curls and delicate rose pink ballet slippers. It had lain shattered on the wooden floor, and I just stood over it, trembling, with tears streaming down my face. That was how my mother had found me. I cannot describe the pain and grief etched onto her face and she slowly bent down and tenderly picked up the shards of the porcelain ballerina. Once she had gathered all the pieces in her hand, she held them to her breast and wept, mourning the little figurine. I knew she loved that little dancer more than she would ever love me.

My mother died a few months later. By then I had become numb, cold to emotion, cold to feeling. Feeling caused too much pain. But I was so guilty; my mother had never forgiven me, and I couldn't forgive myself for all I had done. My father couldn't do anything with me, he was a widower mourning the loss of his wife, and he and his job to attend to. Of course my sister's wouldn't take me in either. So it was off to boarding school with me.

The school was a cruel, dark, hateful place. I felt unwanted and unwelcome there too. I wrote home begging to come home, wanting to get out of the horrible school. My father ignored my pleading letters and kept me in school, until the holidays of course.

And Erik seemed to understand all of this about me. He understood my pain, and my guilt. He gave me hope that someone would finally love me. That I was lovable. Though Erik was quiet and uncomfortable in my presence, I reached out to him. And he withdrew into himself, scarcely coming up from the cellar.

But it always seemed he was with me, I could feel his warm breath on my neck and his long fingers trail gently down my arm. I couldn't escape from his presence.

As time went by, I wondered about his mask. It covered his entire face, leaving only his eyes as a source for feeling. They were deep, glittering pools of emotion hidden behind the curtain of the mask. But what could he be hiding? How could anyone who made such beautiful music, had such a beautiful voice, and moved so beautifully be anything less than beautiful? The more I was around him, the more I was convinced he was a fallen angel, and that was the reason he couldn't show his face.

So I became cruel, taunting him, pushing him to edge. I wanted him to notice me, to look me, to acknowledge my existence. I was torn apart by his cool indifference. I could handle being ignored by others, but with Erik it was different, like he was ripping out my heart and smiling and spitting on it every time he looked past me. Like he knew what he was doing. He caused me so much pain. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't breath without feeling my anguish. I loved him _so much . . . _

As I sit here reflecting on what has brought me to this point, I realize I still love him. So much that it's killing me. Loving Erik will be the end of me. He is my downfall and my rescuer. The music plays on, a lullaby now, as if he knows I am here listening, and he wants me to sleep, to regain my strength. But it's too late now Erik. I have already died. My soul has drowned in my sorrow in my love for you. Only you can revive me. Only you can pull me from these turbulent black waters. If only you knew, maybe you would. But I can't tell you when you don't see me.

I lean my head against the cold wall. Fatigue is pulling me down, and soon I will be lost to sleep. The last few chords of the lullaby are ringing, and I wrap the music around me like a blanket. My eyes are heavy with my tiredness, and I sigh softly, my pale lips part slightly. In my last few moments of consciousness, I cling to the his music, holding onto the last notes for dear life. _His music is all I have._


End file.
